The Story of An Hour"
“The Story of An Hour”Kate Chopin (1894)Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken tobreak to her as gently as possible the news of her husband’s death.It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealedin half concealing. Her husband’s friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he whohad been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received,with Brently Mallard’s name leading the list of “killed.” He had only taken the time toassure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any lesscareful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzedinability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, inher sister’s arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her roomalone. She would have no one follow her.There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank,pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach intoher soul.She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiverwith the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below apeddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singingreached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had metand piled one above the other in the west facing her window.She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless,except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itselfto sleep continues to sob in its dreams.She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even acertain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed awayoff yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, butrather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it?She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out ofthe sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thingthat was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her willas powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandonedherself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and overunder hte breath: “free, free, free!” The vacant stare and the look of terror that hadfollowed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, andthe coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear andexalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that shewould weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face thathad never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyondthat bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to herabsolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself.There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which menand women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellowcreature. Akind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked uponit in that brief moment of illumination.And yet she had loved himsometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! Whatcould love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of selfassertionwhich she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!”Free! Body and soul free!” she kept whispering.Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, imploring foradmission. “Louise, open the door! I beg; open the dooryou will make yourself ill. Whatare you doing, Louise? For heaven’s sake open the door.””Go away. I am not making myself ill.” No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life throughthat open window.Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summerdays, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that lifemight be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might belong.She arose at length and opened the door to her sister’s importunities. There was afeverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory.She clasped her sister’s waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stoodwaiting for them at the bottom.Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard whoentered, a little travelstained, composedly carrying his gripsack and umbrella. He hadbeen far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. Hestood amazed at Josephine’s piercing cry; at Richards’ quick motion to screen him fromthe view of his wife.When the doctors came they said she had died of heart diseaseof the joy that kills.
